Every now and then, the faint sound of squeals and muffled explosions cut through the heavy silence, as people set off early fireworks. I pressed my fist into my forehead and screwed up my eyes. I couldn’t make sense of anything I’d done that night. Why did I leave the party so early – and what had Zoe done afterwards? She wasn’t right that day – I knew it at the time. Why didn’t I ask more questions?
Who did the police talk to about Kerry? Was it Dave and Jodie? Why should it be? What had they ever done but be kind to her? Kinder than Zoe and I were. I hoped the police wouldn’t come back and ask me about them.
And why were the police taking things out of Kerry’s house all the time?
There were so many questions. And no answers.
I don’t know how long I sat there, not moving, staring out of the window as it grew darker and darker. I think at some point Mum must have come in and talked to me and put a blanket round my shoulders, because I can’t remember how it got there. I talked to Zoe in my head and asked her all my questions, but I didn’t get any response.
November 5
And still no Kerry.
Another visit from Jenny the Scarecrow and Sandra. I heard them murmuring to Mum and I saw their grim faces before she called me down to speak to them. They both gave me over-bright smiles.
It was becoming a routine. They told me to sit down; Mum made them both cups of tea; they asked how I was today. I asked how Zoe was. No change. And then they got to the point.
‘We’ve gone through Zoe’s phone,’ Sandra said.
‘And?’ I thought I knew what was coming: that Zoe had asked Kerry to meet her that night in The Cut. But it was something else.
Jenny leaned forward. ‘There was a message for you on it. Zoe texted you around three o’clock on Sunday morning. You never got that message, did you?’
I shook my head.
‘No. It looked like Zoe saved it into her phone, but never sent it.’
I waited. ‘And? What did it say?’
Sandra and Jenny flicked looks at each other and away again. Sandra coughed. ‘Oh, look, here’s your mum with that tea. You should have some, Anna. Put some sugar in it.’
I shook my head. ‘What did the message say?’
‘Sweet tea’s good for shock.’ Mum handed me a mug.
My fingers felt slippery as I grasped the handle. ‘What did the message say?’
Jenny put her hand on my knee. I could smell her musky perfume and faintly, cigarette smoke. ‘Zoe was in a very disturbed state of mind that night, wasn’t she?’
I blew steam across the surface of the tea, took a sip and pursed my lips at the taste.
Jenny went on. ‘We have pieced some things together. Zoe had a big row with her mum and it got violent. We understand Zoe pushed her mother and she fell, hitting her head hard. When Zoe left home, her mother was unconscious and bleeding.’
I nodded.
‘Mrs Sawyer is going to be all right. That’s the good news,’ Sandra cut in.
‘What did the message say?’
‘Zoe thought her mum was … She thought she may be dead.’
The mug felt heavy and all my limbs felt light. I put the tea down on the table and clasped my hands together to stop them trembling. ‘Zoe thought she’d killed her own mum?’
Jenny gave a little incline of her head. ‘She did. She wrote a text to tell you. She saved it as a draft on her phone. And then she took some of her mother’s tablets.’
Mum passed me a tissue and put a firm arm around my shoulder.
‘The message said, the magic’s gone all bad. What did she mean, do you think? Zoe says…’ Sandra glanced down at her notebook. ‘She says, You were right. It’s gone too far. Do you know what she’s talking about?’
I shook my head, slowly, side to side, my throat aching. Zoe had put it just right, though. The magic had all gone bad.
‘Could I have...?’ I hardly dared ask the question. I wiped my eyes and breathed out. ‘If she’d sent the message…’
‘Could you have saved her? We don’t know. It might have helped if she’d got to the hospital quicker, I suppose,’ Sandra started.
I heard Mum clear her throat.
‘But the fact is, she didn’t send the text, so there’s no way you can take any responsibility for this, Anna,’ Jenny said, her voice soft. She leaned forward and put a hand on mine. ‘She’s going to survive. She’ll be all right, I promise, so you can stop worrying. But it’ll take a long time and she won’t be going back to live with her mum.’
I put my knuckle into my mouth and chewed at it. Mum’s fingers tightened on my shoulder. It was late and I watched as one single, final, fantastic firework hissed past into the sky, leaving a lingering trail of silver sparks that floated in the air like the ghost of a bird’s wings. And something about it made me catch my breath. ‘Make them OK,’ I said, to the empty air. ‘Make them both OK. Please.’
November 6
Dad drove me to the hospital. Jenny
